Masked
by med-anomaly
Summary: Wilson has a dark secret that only House knows. Warning: Evil!Wilson within.Part 2: Unmaskedwhen House learned his secret. Even monsters need friends.
1. Chapter 1

The alarm clock sounds, and ritual begins. He clips and files his nails into flat, even edges, styles each chestnut lock into place, and dons perfectly pressed clothes. When he's done grooming, he studies his facial expressions in the mirror until it's time to go. The process takes hours, but he is convinced this meticulous attention to detail helps him escape suspicion.

His pulse quickens and head buzzes as soon as he enters the hospital. The anticipation of what lies in wait is intoxicating. He never calls ahead. These moments of excitement are too precious.

He walks to his office, flashing a well-practiced smile at whoever he passes. He steps into his white coat and smoothes over non-existent wrinkles.

Looking at his patient files, he sees there are two who are close to the end. Eyes close with dizzying pleasure. A private, unpracticed smile emerges as he remembers the feel of life slipping into nothingness beneath his hands.

He catches himself and glances outside. Darkness still fills the office next door. His mind wanders.

He's late again. I'm not surprised. I make it a point to try to fit in. He makes it a point not to; opposite masks for opposite thrills. He lusts after the rush of pulling lives from death's clutches and I for the rush of releasing the lives death has already claimed. We both seek power over mortality.

He's the only one who knows my secret. I wasn't careless, but I underestimated him - a mistake I only made once.

A colleague was having trouble with end-stage cases. I took some from her. I took too many. He noticed. Everyone else sees only what I want them to see, but he sees me as I am. He never tells, never even threatens to tell. So, I keep him.

I am a healer. I am a killer. I don't know how to be one without the other. He knows this, but feels safe with me anyway. "You only kill the dying," he says. So far, this is true. But then, everybody dies.


	2. Chapter 2

She was beautiful, but that is not what attracted him. The patients he longed for were breaking her. He pretended to care when she cried, offering a shoulder and occasional cup of coffee. He asked her out, building the relationship slowly. She lost another, and he couldn't resist. Seeing his chance, he started switching patients with her.

It is with this misstep that their dance began.

A pretty young woman can persuade a man to do many things, but an oncologist who purposefully takes on hopeless cases is still an anomaly.

He had been friendly with everyone, but had no friends. He made sure no one had an ill word to say about him. It wasn't enough to remain hidden.

He remembers that night.

I chat with an insipid nurse making sure to mention how poorly my patient is doing. I compliment her, flirt with her. Proximity, to the patient's room and task at hand, teases me while I listen to whatever trite thing the nurse is saying. At last, a tear-stained group exits the door I've been watching. I excuse myself with a falsely sad smile.

The blinds are already closed. The click of the lock triggers adrenaline to flow in anticipation. I turn and study my patient. There are only shreds of humanity left. He could be man or woman, old or young. Suffering has replaced any other identity

The darkness feeds on light. He was once robust with a bright pink face and soft brown hair. Now, pale, peeling flesh is lost in stark white sheets. I touch a colorless cheek, and he wakes. It is electrifying.

There is fear in his sunken eyes, but it disappears when he sees the white coat. Then there is unvoiced pain in those eyes. Then there is begging in those eyes. He asked me for this, and I'm all too happy to comply.

"Yes," I tell him, licking my lips, quivering with excitement. "It's time." I don't bother hiding my delight. He won't tell.

My pulse quickens in exhilaration. I wipe sweaty palms on my coat. I push the drugs as quickly as I can, so I can place both hands on his chest feeling the misery and life within. I close my eyes and feel the rhythm of it. The skeletal frame heaves with each shallow intake of air. My breathing becomes more rapid and heavy, as his slows and withers. His breath stops and my own halts with a gasp.

I remain paralyzed with power for a moment before staggering to a chair. I hold my hand to my face till I'm calm enough to step outside. Gray tones fill his skin where before there was only white. The darkness feeds on light.

Shadows and candlelight play across the office walls while cool jazz filters through computer speakers. My head sways lightly to the music. I am drunk with pleasure, enjoying the afterglow of my night's activities, relishing, reliving. Extinguishing a life that is ending, controlling that last breath, it is orgasmic. It is delicious. It is what I live for.

I am rudely interrupted when he pushes my balcony door open without knocking. He feels entitled. He is. He stands at my doorstep, heedless of the rain falling around him, on him. I rise and meet him, irritated by this intrusion.

"I know," he says in a forceful whisper. My irritation flees. I am caught in his knowing eyes, unable to look away. My giddiness from the night's kill intensifies knowing he bore witness.

I don't deny or play dumb. He commands better than that. He knows not only the what, but comprehends the why. We are two sides of the same coin. One flip, and our roles would be reversed. He makes no accusation and I offer no defense.

My hands slide across his slick, wet face as I kiss him roughly. He reciprocates and pulls me outside. Darkness envelops us. We shift and twirl, taking turns leading in a mesmerizing pas de deux of power and knowledge. The night's tempest mirrors our chaotic tumult as we test each other. Our bodies and eyes converse for a moment that holds an eternity.

The moment passes and I lead him back into my office. I pull off his shirt and wrap a white towel around him drawing long even strokes up and down his arms, infusing him with warmth. His skin reddens beneath my hands, but I'm careful not to break it. We do not speak, but watch each other and remain physically close as we dry off and change. I thank him wordlessly when he leaves. Our bond is galvanized.

We rarely speak of it, but he offers an acceptance I never thought I'd find. In return, I offer whatever he asks - food, money, sex, drugs. He likes control, but bores easily. So, I play Russian roulette, alternating between placating and pushing. It is the knowledge that pleases him most though - our inside joke on the rest of the world.

Fools sometimes ask me how I can be friends with such a monster. I smile at their error, thinking of the gift he has given me, and answer in a carefully measured tone. "Even monsters need friends."


End file.
